Beauty Is

It's the most beautiful sight you've ever seen.

*

Everyone's idea of beauty is different, especially yours. You don't look at beauty being a red rose or a blue, cloudless sky. In fact, you're not really sure what you find beautiful; everything around you seems too bland and ordinary and… just. Not beautiful. At least, not in the way you'd like it to be.

Beauty is not the pale face that stares back at you from the mirror every morning. You've always told yourself you're good looking, always admired your looks. You've always lied to yourself that it's your looks that make you so… 'popular'.

You've lied to yourself that you're beautiful. Well, you're not. How could something as slimy, as evil as you ever be beautiful, how could your black soul ever let you even think that you were beautiful?

Beauty is not the fear in other people's faces when you come around; their wide eyes mean nothing to you anymore. You can remember the thrill you used to feel when you realized that even your presence was enough to make people shudder and slink away, that wherever you went the whispers echoed after you. Like you were in a spotlight and everyone was afraid that if they stepped into your circle of light, they'd get burned.

But not anymore. It holds no significance whatsoever, the looks that come your way. You don't even care to look at their faces anymore cause none of them are the face you want to see. Their eyes might be wide in fear and oh, what a wondrous sight to see a creature much lower than your pure-blood self cowering at your feet as you point your wand at him, but. It's just not what you want to see. Their blue and brown eyes do nothing for you now.

You want beauty, and this want turns into a need. Something that you just have, have, have to get, you have to, somehow, anyhow. The urge eats you up inside and when you close your eyes you can see a flash of green guiding you to what you want. A glint of green, and a scar that you know all too well. Kneeling at your feet because he's a good-for-nothing bastard who doesn't deserve to have that beauty, dammit, it belongs to you, it's yours, through and through. You want to see fear in his eyes, because that's the only thing that will satisfy you, that he's scared of you. Now that's real beauty.

Beauty is a pair of bright green eyes and scarlet quidditch robes, beauty is a lightning shaped scar and round glasses and untidy hair. And a splash of blood to complete the perfection. Yes, blood makes it all perfect, his spilled blood on the floor. Such is your hate for him.

Beauty is hate, beauty is your enemy. Beauty could bring you down, Malfoy, beauty could kill you for what you happen to be, Beauty hates you just because you're you and you're your father's son. And you hate him too, don't you, hate him with such loathing because who is he, this pretender?

Beauty has a valid reason to hate you, slimy, crawling scum of the earth that your family is. You still have a family because he doesn't. You still have a mother and a father and a secure place to come home to in the holidays just because he doesn't.

And right now, you watch him, the look on your face a practiced one. You hate him, hate him with all your heart because you can't stand to look at him and see him so happy when he should be miserable. You can't stand to look at him and see him so happy when you're miserable. You have so much more than him, Malfoy, you have perfection, when he is all flaws and clumsiness, but you're so miserable and he's so happy.

You need beauty. You close your eyes and you can see it materialize in front of you, so close that you could almost touch it. So close that you can breathe it in, so close… you can almost imagine your fingers around his neck, choking the life out of him, and how everything will be so perfect once he's gone. But…

You're a pathetic little coward, Malfoy, because you know you couldn't go so far, you just can't because you have to be so perfect that you can't risk having his blood on your hands and a thousand lips cursing you into eternity. You're a whiny, little, cowardly thing, aren't you, Malfoy?

You push your chair back. Across from you, you can see him, standing up. At once, the two thick bodies on either side of you stand, as if on signal, but you push both of them back down, ignoring their eyes. The looks of surprise that flash through the dull gazes. As for you, your eyes never leave him, and it's like you're trying to tell him something, because he turns and looks at you, and even though he's too far from you for him to see the desperation in your eyes, you hope he does. Your face is still in its stony mask of hatred, and even now, you will it to stay up as he glares at you, a cold look that could freeze anyone to the core. You told yourself that it would be today, you'd show him who has beauty and perfection and who has nothing. You'd show him exactly what it means to be on the receiving end of a Malfoy's wrath. Pity your father isn't here to see you now; he'd be so proud.

You take a step. He turns his head and you can see him nodding with the small group that rose with him, the bodies that are clustered around him like some protective convoy. The cold from their eyes is even colder than his, like a wind that weaves its way under your robes and under your skin and makes every inch of your flesh crawl with an emotion you never knew you possessed: fear.

But it's a fear of losing him, of having him slip away from between your fingers, not fear of what they might do to you. A fear of him getting away and leaving you with only the dream of being the one on top, the numero uno, a fear of him triumphing over you and a fear of losing face in front of everyone.

You take another step.

Across from you, he matches it. There's a silence over everyone, punctuated only by the sounds of two pairs of feet walking, his light steps and your heavier ones. His easy strides and your brisk, tense walk. Weasley falls into his seat, glaring at you, but even though you feel his eyes boring through your cloak, you don't turn, you don't even acknowledge his presence. You're too enraptured with the figure that's striding towards the main door into the hall, the figure that takes a step every time you do, neither ahead of nor behind you, just evenly matched.

Beauty is a set, determined face. You hold it now, you know, because you see his eyes glancing about nervously, not meeting any of the pairs that are focused on him. You hold beauty in the palm of your hand, and victory will surely be yours.

You reach the door at the same time, both of you parallel with one another. Identical movements, reaching out for it, then you decide to break the cycle. Stare at his passive face. He avoids your eyes. You still hold the upper hand, Malfoy, why don't you take your chance now?

No. There is a time and place, this is the time, but not the place.

Let your hand drop and motion for him to pass through. Your sneer is in place, firm as it always was, because there's no way in hell you'd have him think anything else of you than what he already does. There is no other way. He has to hate you because beauty is hate, isn't it? You snicker when you see the slight hint of surprise on his face.

"What is it, Potter? Afraid I'll attack you when your back is turned? You should know that I'm no-"

"Cut it," he says, short, terse and quiet.

Behind you, the noise of the other students is loud, rising, but in your own little world, it's just him and you and this sense of urgency that's all too clear, on his face and in your movements. He wants to get this over and done with, and his attitude is getting on your nerves because there will never be a day when he can win against you, not when it's just him and you. You want to savor the moments of victory, you want to see him fall, and you can't wait to exact your revenge on him, him, who challenges your obvious superiority and perfection. He pauses before exiting, a cold, cold look at you and robes whipping around the door and sweeping out of the hall. You blink, slowly, then saunter out, one hand already feeling for your wand.

Inside, the tension was thick, but it's nothing to what it is out here. Again, that clawing feeling inside you threatens to spill over as you look at him, already standing in a dueling position, wand out, raised. Now it's not even fear, but it's just this recklessness that's risen within you, this wild, mad passion. He's in front of you, eyes narrowed, and you imitate his stance, mirroring, your own wand out. You resist the urge to blast this dratted Potter-boy to smithereens, controlling your own will so that you can enjoy the aftermath.

For a long moment, you just stand there, you sizing him up and him watching you through those green slits of eyes that you have to work so hard to keep looking at, because they're intense, they burn with such a hate that you can actually feel the heat that radiates from them, burning into your own steely gaze, trying to unhinge you. You have to keep reminding yourself of the fire that burns through your veins, that you're Draco Malfoy and this boy is nothing when compared to you, he is a mere challenger, he is weak, he is nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing…

Nothing and everything at the same time. He is what you see when you close your eyes, he is the embodiment of perfection, inexplicably, just because you can't have it, you can't… no, don't think like that! You can, you can have the picture in your head, because you're Draco Malfoy and you can have anything you want. And right now, the only thing you want is the beautiful picture of Harry Potter on the floor before you, and to see the shock and hate in his green eyes, to see the defeat in his eyes, of him admitting your superiority because he has tainted blood in his veins and yours' runs pure.

He tenses, his sudden, slight movement knocking you out of your reverie, and you know he's going to attack. School rules or no, it's not like that's ever stopped the both of you before, and as he opens his mouth to say something, to utter the spell and to send you flying to the end of the corridor, instinct takes over.

A dance of fire, of blue and silver flame erupts from the end of your wand as the words fly from your mouth, even before a sound leaves his, and in that one, tiny split second that passes between the spell leaving your wand and hitting him, you can see his face, eyes wide with sudden surprise, muscles slack, and…

The noise echoes as his body goes flying along the corridor, against the opposite with the thud that you had been waiting for.

Beauty is a crumpled body with eyes closed and the sickening sound of someone crashing into stone. Beauty is the image of Harry Potter lying against the wall and you run to him, run so that you can stand over him, realize the picture in your dreams. The picture of your victory and his defeat.

Green eyes that look at you with loathing, the fists clenched in anger and everything you had ever dreamed of barely a foot in front of you. The noise from the hall has spilled out, spilled over into the corridor and the shouts and cries and pointing fingers don't mean a thing because you're just too entranced by the picture in front of you, you want so badly to reach out and touch it, to make sure that it's there, that you're not dreaming, that the breathtaking sight of the results of your own hate isn't just your imagination.

You know better though. You have to let yourself be taken away, you have to give in to the tugging at your robes, you have to tear your eyes away from what is undeniably the one thing you had in mind when you were looking for beauty. The pain on his face is a sight that has been etched into your memory, a perfect picture of what it is to destroy those that challenge you.

But even as someone holds you back, someone grabs your arms and you can hear the sharp voice saying, "Mr. Malfoy! That's fifty points from Slytherin!" and even as the whole school congregates around the scene, you can't help but take one last look at him, eyes narrowed in hate, a flash of green and a scar and the bright trickle of red that falls down the side of his pale face and for the first time in weeks, feel content. You have paid a price for this victory, but it's well worth it; who cares about house points when you have just shown that you hold power within yourself that can conquer anyone, even The Boy Who Lived? House points are such a petty thing, everything is so worthless when compared to the ultimate force, power. There is nothing such as good or evil, Malfoy, no such thing as love, only hate and the power it can bring to you. Today, you have conquered beauty. This is only the first step.

But it's a step. A small one, but still a step till the day when…

Till that day. That day will come. One day, you will live your dream. Today, you could only show him your wrath on such a small scale; one day, he will be groveling at your feet and your wand will rest right between his eyes, and you'll be able to see the bright flash of light, green reflected in green, and to hear his body drop as he screams for the last time.

Beauty is your enemy and you have to destroy it. To kill it.

What is beauty?

Beauty is… no, let's rephrase that.

The destruction of beauty is your life's ambition, because real beauty?

It just doesn't exist.

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fin

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